The Main Tendencies of Victorian Poetry: Studies in the Thought and Art of the Greater Poets

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St. George Press, 1907 - 208 pages
 

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Page 33 - All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist ; Not its semblance, but itself ; no beauty, nor good, nor power • Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
Page 31 - That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it.
Page 72 - Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, — He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him : thou art just.
Page 166 - From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Page 137 - Alas that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! Whence are we, and why are we ? of what scene The actors or spectators ? Great and mean Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. XXII. He will awake no more, oh never more ! 'Wake thou,' cried Misery, 'childless...
Page 30 - Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
Page 154 - With these thou seest— if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — To the island-valley of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
Page 7 - That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her.
Page 70 - Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off— at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light : And with no language but a cry.
Page 83 - The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, A golden foot or a fairy horn Thro...

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